


Seven in the sky

by emocsibe



Series: Mag7Week Stories [3]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly hurt, One Shot, Tale Style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 21:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12307842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emocsibe/pseuds/emocsibe
Summary: A witch, a harpy – whispered the children following their mothers’ silent chatter; too stubborn and too self-sufficient – said the men, and they made sure not a single one of their boys thought about getting close to her.Written for Mag7Week; Day7; Friends & Family || Sunset





	Seven in the sky

**Seven in the Sky**

 

 

Sometimes people looked at her red hair and in the depths of their hearts a small fire of fear started to burn. Sometimes, but only when they looked past the determination and stubbornness in her eyes, they grew even more afraid of her and of what she can bring upon their heads, what destruction she can summon upon the town, upon its dwellers and visitors – and after hearing how her voice sounded like when she grew furious, when she crossed a line no man dared, they always convinced themselves that little Emma is a witch, that she is a danger and a threat, someone they shouldn’t allow to live among them. Sometimes there would be hushed whispers around town, then even hushed threats to her mother, shouted orders at her father if she was out of earshot, and then, little Emma and her parents would travel again. A witch, a harpy – whispered the children following their mothers’ silent chatter; too stubborn and too self-sufficient – said the men, and they made sure not a single one of their boys thought about getting close to her.

 She grew and her sadness grew, too; with each year her hair got longer and it stayed red, red like the flames of hell where she wanted to ascend after being accused of untrue things, where she wanted the people who treated her family bad, to burn and suffer. She was a kind girl but she’d learnt it early on that people only ever saw what they wanted to see, and as such, in their eyes she would never be a good girl. After realising this, she aspired to be bad. She climbed the trees, outran the boys and mocked the girls who threw insults at her way but were afraid to touch the frogs Emma dumped on their porches. She watched them and listened to them when they played together and there was a feeling lost in her chest, lost so deeply and painfully, lost seemingly forever, a sense of belonging that she couldn’t claim to know. She felt alone and cursed by her hair and by her eyes and her mouth that said only the truth at every sunset when the horizon would be just as red as the flames she wished upon the world.

She grew and her distaste towards people grew, too; with each year her anger got deeper and it stayed red, red like the blood her father had coughed up one afternoon before dying and red like her mother’s tear-filled eyes. She worked hard, harder than men who had to prove little to their entire town, but in the end, it had achieved nothing but more scolding and more hatred directed towards her. Little Emma and her mother would travel again, travel further than before in hopes of finally settling down somewhere where the people wouldn’t hate them for saying the truth. Emma watched them with curious eyes and her wish to know more, to see more, grew. She saw the girls dancing at fests and she saw the boys gather in groups before one of them asked the neighbour’s girl’s hand in marriage. She saw how that girl had looked at one of the other boys and she saw how the proposer had looked at the same boy. Their eyes were filled with love when directed at him – and they were filled with acceptance and sorrow when saying yes at the altar. She saw how that boy – his name was Theo – turned his head when the pair said their vows and how his chest shook with the force of those unshed tears she knew too well. Theo left the ceremony as soon as it was concluded, leaving the newlyweds to their own despair. Emma walked to his door and knocked, three times, and the door opened, and there she stood with red hair in the red rays of the settling sun, offering hope.

 She grew and her friendship with Theo grew, too; with each year they would talk and laugh and run in the fields to the river that cried red on each afternoon, to the river that her mother would never see again. She cried a lot these years, she cried and Theo closed his eyes and swallowed his own tears, fearing that if once he’d started, he couldn’t stop anymore. Emma mourned and Theo avoided the friend that once was the closest to him and he avoided his wife, too, and soon the town was filled with gossip. Gossip about the red haired witch and poor, poor Theo who had fallen for her charms. Emma would often be bored by her daily tasks so Theo brought out his gun to the river, handing it over to her, encouraging her to use it, for in his care it would only grew a coat of rust. She would shoot at a fallen tree, she would shoot at it until its branches were all cleared off. Theo watched with awe and respect and his eyes shone with happiness once again, as if his sorrow would have had vanished through these years. Emma’s laughter returned on a cold day during spring, and the river carried her laughter far away, through lands she longed to see and through towns she wished to call hers to live in. She talked and talked about these places until Theo stopped listening with his ears and started to embrace these ideas with his heart, instead. Soon, a carriage was packed with their belongings and Emma stared at the road that led to their new life, painted red by the sunset.

 She grew and her love towards Rose Creek grew, too; with each week there she gained friends which surprised her, but she did not complain, not when their happiness affected her, too, and tinted her cheeks with red after minutes spent laughing and catching her breath. For the first time in her life she felt accepted and welcomed, felt at ease with her neighbours, her new associates and when she looked at Theo – Teddy to most people in town, apparently – she saw her own joy reflected on his face. They both had found happiness and a place to call their home, a community that had no problems with them travelling and living together. The preacher welcomed them at the first Sunday mass they’d attended and treated them like the rest of his flock, with respect and care, and Emma’s heart was singing with joy. For the first time in her life, she felt at peace with her red hair and bold heart, and she felt free to share her thoughts with those she called friends. They often walked together –after working on the fields, after going to the store or after picking some colourful flowers to decorate the church with – and soon, she walked with one Matthew Cullen at her side, arms linked, silhouette highlighted by the fiery red light of the afternoon sun.

 She grew and her love towards Matthew grew, too; with each day her feelings strengthened and the time they spent together increased, just like the kisses Matthew left on her hands and on her cheeks and on her lips, making her happy and hopeful. When Matthew had lowered himself onto one knee, and raised his hands to hold hers, she had felt the world turn around with her. Not once had she believed that one day she could be married, that one day she could be seen as a wife and not a witch who brings destruction and misery to all around her person. The small, joyful ‘yes’ left her lips faster than a heartbeat, leaving them both smiling and content in one another’s safe and loving embrace. Teddy was the first to congratulate them on their engagement, and also he was the one to escort Emma to the altar, proudly leading her on his arm, knowing that she would make an excellent partner to Matthew, one who would be in all mean an equal of his. They said their vows and spent the rest of the day dancing and enjoying the traditional festivity that was held every time a couple wed in Rose Creek, returning to their new, shared home only at night. Matthew lifted her in his arms and crossed the threshold, admiring how the last rays of the sun glinted in her eyes and made her hair look like fresh embers in the fireplace.

 She grew and the hardships she had to face grew, too; a man named Bogue had come to Rose Creek, had occupied the mine and had threatened them, then, after many months of suffering, he shed blood that coloured the sand of the main street red, red like the clouds in her heart that the grief had left in its wake. She cried and cried for hours, until her throat was dry and her voice rasped when she asked Teddy to go with her, but he only nodded and pressed a cup of water in her hands. She drank, drank the water as if drinking it would kill Bogue wherever he was at the moment, drank it as if it was poison, intended to kill her and ease her sufferings, but no death and nor ease came. Instead she rode away, Teddy following him, rode until her horse was dead on its feet, then she talked and asked and begged but no one would listen to her pleas. She swallowed her tears and hardened her face, stilled her trembling legs and hoped. Hoped to find someone willing to listen, willing to fight, to die, to do anything that would help Bogue’s downfall to arrive, and on the second day in Amador City, her hopes flared up at the sight of the man who brought justice to a dead family. She pleaded her cause and she clung to the last of her strength and then – by wonder, by God’s will or by the Devil’s machination – Sam Chisolm agreed to do the impossible. Later that day, with Joshua Faraday riding with the three of them, she looked at the sun bleeding red all over the land and thought of nothing but revenge.

 She grew and her impatience grew, too; she was waiting for Bogue to arrive, waiting to have the chance to make him bleed and paint the ground red, red with the blood she would shed. She looked at her companions, looked at the shadow of man who was called Goodnight and his second shadow, Billy, who were so close it called forth images of herself and her husband in her mind and her heart ached for them. She looked at Red Harvest, so calm, almost stoic but precise and deadly – just perfect for the task he joined to fulfil, and Emma thought of what Sam had said about him being driven away from home, and her heart ached for him. She looked at Vasquez, loud and honest, just like she had been once, hated and hunted for making what was right, and her heart ached for him. She looked at Horne, looked at his sad, knowing smile and listened to him telling about a family he’d once had, and she remembered her parents, her husband, a child they might have had, and she didn’t need to imagine his pain for she knew it and her heart ached for him. She looked at Sam, looked him in the eyes and found herself drowning in quiet sorrows but knowing not the reason for it – but what she had seen had told her about a broken man who had pieced himself back together by sheer will and anger that had been washed away – only to slowly resurface now – and her heart ached for him. She looked at Faraday, even louder than Vasquez, loud enough to hide his issues behind something he was not, to brag when he needed a hand to grasp and a friend to be aided by, and her heart ached for him.

 Emma Cullen looked into a mirror and she saw a witch, a killer, a damned person who condemned those around her and her heart had no compassion towards the person she saw.

She held her rifle and prayed.

She prayed for death.

Bogue’s.

Her own.

And then, she survived, and cried for those, who had not, bitter and sharp tears of hatred towards the one that had brought all this loss on the town – and the name she cursed was not Bartholomew Bogue.

 She stopped growing and her tears stopped flowing, too; Emma sat at the four graves every day and sang them sweet lullabies, sang them about happiness and love and flowers and yet, the empty pang in her chest remained. She planted roses and lilies and watered them when no rain would fall, cut them when they turned less than beautiful, less than these men deserved to rest under, and yet, the lump in her throat remained. She brought colourful pebbles to frame the piles of dust that covered four brave men, four who had not been afraid to die, who had given more than her for a cause that had nothing to do with them; she turned the graves into gardens, and yet, the whisper in her head, treacherous as it was, remained, telling her how she had killed more than Bogue ever had, and her tears fell amongst the vibrant flowers and stones, again and again. And as the droplets fell and as her chest shook with regret and loss the graves turned red as if bleeding once again, bleeding in their deaths and making the dirt bleed, too, and Emma’s hair and the crops burned in the red light of the dying sun.   

**Author's Note:**

> I promptly forgot to upload this one, although this was the only one that I managed to finish before the start of the Mag7 Week. Sigh. 
> 
> Also this work was very loosely inspired by Oscar Wilde's The Dole of the King's Daughter - go and read it it's awesome btw.


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